American Pie
by Shotgunsinlace
Summary: USUK/DeanCas - America and England's vacation goes awry after they end up stranded in the middle of Nebraska. Now, with the help of two brothers and a fallen angel, they have to face up to unknown forces that defy even England's wild imagination.
1. Chapter 1

Part I

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The first time America and England met the Winchesters was in a rowdy roadside bar somewhere in Nebraska.

Vacationing with America through the back roads of his country consisted of mostly two things, sunburns and severe headaches and this one would be no different— England figured as he sat on a sticky booth across his boyfriend, sipping the tasteless piss America dubbed beer. He also had rope burns on both his palms and a bruised wrist, which were acquired in the most unpleasant and unsexiest of fashions. His feet were swollen inside of his combat boots and his neck stung with what he figured was some sort of burn caused by the constant chaffing of his collar. In short, England was not a happy camper. He had voted on just taking a damn plane to Washington but the overzealous American had insisted they drive there. Also, screw the highway; he wanted to take the scenic view.

Two hours after they arrived in Nebraska and America's pickup truck dove nose first into a ditch, both countries ended up in an old rundown bar which had taken a good hour to reach on foot. They were both tired and more than a little cranky, but not even that could dampen America's mood as he pushed the buttons to the old looking jukebox across the bar. The costumers became louder, all trying to speak above the blaring music and casting the young man pointed looks, some in annoyance and others on a less than modest level.

America amped his grin, all honest and giddy as he made his way to the counter, ordering another two beers. He ignored the few dozen pairs of eyes who kept seizing him up like some sort of deer about to be mounted on a wall as he waited for the young blonde lady to get him his drinks. Rowdy or not, the bar felt off. It reminded America too much of the World Summit back in New York, all business like and stern with the occasional brawl. This wasn't the kind of atmosphere one would expect in the middle of nowhere, where mullets reigned and flannel was the suit of choice.

"Here you go, handsome." The young lady flashed him a nice smile, she looked a little too young to be working at a place like that, but America could understand. Times were rough, so the buck was welcomed either way. All of that aside, though, the place seemed like a family owned place. She was probably the owner's daughter.

"Ah, thanks. Hey, I was wondering-" America didn't really notice it when his voice took on a bit of a southern drawl as he leaned against the counter, it had been a while since he used it. "Is there a place nearby we could spend the night? I mean, not you and me, like, a friend of mine... and me." He was quick to fix what he meant with a goofy grin when another woman loomed behind the young girl, not looking too friendly. America mildly gestured to England sitting at their booth, absently staring out the window with an empty bottle in his hand. "Our car broke down and there's a good chance my brother won't be able to make it here before morning."

The older woman leaned on the counter, staring hard at him as if she was trying to figure something out, read something; he felt genuinely creeped. "You won't make it anywhere before dark, kid. I could call you up a ride someplace but it's gonna cost ya' with these folks." Her voice was deep, hardened, something that surprised him. America nodded though, his smile never wavering as he pushed his glasses up his nose. Best keep calm.

"Thanks very much, ma'am." Giving them both a grateful nod, America took his beers and made his way through the crowd and back to his booth, ignoring even more of the questioning stares. "The owner said she'd try to find us a ride, or, well, I think she's the owner. Anyways, we can crash there until Matt gets here. Unless you want to sleep under the stars, which we totally should. You don't get to see them like this in the city."

England threw him a deadly glare before turning it on the beer. "Don't even think about getting me to sleep on the ground."

"But it'll be awesome! Just you and me, you know. Make it all worthwhile." That grin couldn't have gotten any wider, it such a thing was even impossible. America brought up his legs to cross them like some kid, popping open his beer and taking a serious swig. He had lost count on how many he had drunk already, but England was just on his second. America planned on keeping it that way. Weak alcohol or not, he would much rather have England sober. _Stupid__gentleman__who__couldn__'__t__even__hold__his__liquor__…_

England didn't even bother replying and instead started playing with the salt shaker, brooding. It wasn't that he was opposed to having a romantic evening with America; he just wasn't up to it while feeling like he had been run over by a truck. Repeatedly. All he wanted to do was take a shower, take some tea to calm his frayed nerves and crash on a soft bed. They could save the romance for once they reached Washington.

On the other hand, America hummed along to the song overhead, looking out into the orange sky as the sun began to set. He liked seeing it, his country, this way. All raw nature, untouched and still as new as he first remembered it. Hell, he'd go far enough as to call it magical, as cheesy as that sounded. So maybe he was currently on England's bad side, what else was new. In the end, he knew it would be so worth it; seeing it all with his grumpy British boyfriend.

America got a little too caught up with his unusual deep thinking and hadn't noticed England babbling away about something. "—let him know. It'd be inconvenient for him to keep on his merry way."

"Uh… what?"

His eyebrows furrowed, an impressive and intimidating feat, in sheer frustration. England looked about ready to throw his bottle in the general direction of America's forehead. "I said, we should give Canada a call and let him know where exactly we're at. Nebraska is a pretty vast state." The accent made his clipped words funnier than they should be to America, and he couldn't help the slight giggle that nearly escaped. Nearly. Clearing his throat he nodded.

It took them a few seconds of staring at each other, waiting for either one to make the move before it hit him. America looked at England with his brightest smile and horrifying realization dawned in England's green eyes. The smile faltered. "What is it, England?"

"Please… do tell me you took the rucksack from the trunk before we left."

Thin eyebrows shot up, shifting the glasses along. "I took the luggage."

"Fuck."

"England! I told you to take it like three times! What the hell, man!"

England rubbed his palms across his face, fuming at the idiocy that was the entire trip. He should have stayed in London, or at least should have gone back to London after the damn meeting was over. Damn the infuriating American for sweet talking him into such a stupid idea. "This is all your bloody fault!"

Suppressing an indignant yelp, America got to his feet. There was no real anger behind his actions, just slight annoyance at being blamed for something that clearly wasn't his fault for once. "My fault? How is this my fault, exactly?" Not caring if he was making a scene, he turned on his heels and headed out, ignoring how tense most of the costumers were now.

"Where do you think you're going, you infuriating sod?" England followed soon after, tripping over his feet as he slammed into a particularly ghastly smelling trucker. "My apologies." Only two beers and he was tipsy. America must have put something in his drinks. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, America took long strides, squinting into the sun as he got on the road and started walking back in the direction in which they had come from. "Alfred!"

"I'm going to get our stuff, _Arthur_." He sounded like a little kid lashing out at his mother. America couldn't help but cringe at the thought. Using their human names during an argument always annoyed him to no end, but being among other humans, and being so loud, he couldn't go around shouting their respective titles.

Simply put, America didn't know why he felt so irritated. It felt odd to him. England always was scatterbrained, he'd done worse before. Like leaving his wallet back home and remembering it while halfway through the Atlantic Ocean. He ignored the cold chill sliding through his back and turned up his shirt collar.

Both their wallets were in the rucksack, along with their phones and several important documents that had been stored in a hurry as they left New York. Had it been just clothes or something, American wouldn't have bothered going back, but these were personal effects he couldn't just leave behind for the sake of national security.

Twenty minutes later, and the bar was but a speck of light. America had double-timed when the dark started creeping up. He usually didn't mind being outside in the dark in his own lands, but that something was still off. The tension faded a bit when England finally caught up with him, panting, and grabbed a hold of his sleeve. "Will you… slow down… you git?" They stood there, giving the Briton a chance to regain his breath. "I'm too bloody old for this."

"You're old overall." America couldn't help but quip with a light laugh, earning himself yet another glare.

The sky had already turned a deep blue color, nearly black in some places, but streaks of pink and dark violet still slashed through in some places. Stars were already sparkling in the darker blotches, light wisps of gray clouds adding to the array of colors. It really was beautiful, England thought idly, still clinging to America as he straightened up to crack his back. America was always beautiful. His grip softened then, almost tender as he briefly looked into those equally sparkling blue eyes, a small smile trying to tug its way into the corner of his lip.

America took that as England's version of an apology.

Shoulder to shoulder, they continued their walk towards the abandoned truck, huddling closer when the temperature began to drop; their jackets were tucked away in their luggage back at the bar. A thought crossed England's mind and he only hoped they wouldn't get stolen.

"Do you think Canada will be here before morning?" America spoke up, just to keep the silence at bay. It was late October and not a single cicada was out shrilling their way into the night. No crickets, no anything. He knew how the nights sounded, and this was too quiet. Too cold for comfort. Something lurked in the short distance and only then did he notice it.

"I'll give him a call once we get our stuff back and see how far off he is—" England was cut off when he slammed into America's broad back hard enough to leave him reeling. "Idiot! How many times have I told you never to stop abruptly when—"

America shushed him before he could finish, and he did so immediately. Thinking back, England couldn't really remember when the last time was America had signaled him to be quiet. The Trenches came briefly to mind, but he wasn't that sure. Seconds ticked by as they stood there, England's eyebrow raised in question as he remained pressed against America's stiff back. Was it a coyote? A robber? Something ridiculously stupid which was causing the American to overreact for no other reason than to act like his supposedly heroic self? America's arms were lightly stretched out though, knees bent, a protective stance if he ever seen one. England was certain now; he hadn't seen America this alert since the World Wars.

Curiosity and uncertainty winning the best of him, he looked over America's shoulder.

There was nothing.

"America…?"

"England." His voice was tight in warning, clipped and stiff.

"What are you doing?" England moved, trying to get by the irrationally spooked American to no avail. He tried to see whatever the hell it was, if anything, that the other was seeing, but it wasn't dark enough to fully obscure anything. Whatever it was, it was lost on England.

America, though, saw it clear as day, standing before him, dark shadow stark against the painted hues of the endless sky, ominous and dark and downright evil. It took him a good moment to put a name to it, not having seen anything of the sort in years, centuries even. But it was there now, unfazed by the crowd a few miles away or any cars that might pass by. Those things didn't wander outside of forests a few states away, so seeing one right there in the open made chills skid along America's spine. It was the thing of nightmares. Something he had thought long extinct.

Suddenly, America remembered that ghosts weren't the only thing he should be terrified of.

He took a step back, shoving England as he went; flinching at the shouted swears and curses as he tried to keep him quiet but the Englishman wasn't having it. They had to get their stuff back, and he'd be damned if America turned back now after walking for so long. He seemed downright scared, and having it been any other occasion, England would have jumped into his overprotective mode. Mother hen instinct kicking into high gear. But standing there in the clearing, in the middle of nowhere with no potential danger in sight, he couldn't make sense of it.

Trying to understand why England couldn't see the thing, America chanced a glance, glared at the shorter blonde before turning back to face it. He immediately stiffened when he noticed that it had moved closer. Logic escaped him; he knew those things were fast, faster than anything anyone had ever encountered. All it would take is a blink of the eye and they wouldn't be waking up for days, if lucky, just hanging from hooks, waiting to be skinned. America tried to think quickly, something he wasn't really used to, but kept bringing up blanks. Panic was setting in, he was sweating cold, and he was currently fighting the urge to curl into England like he usually did while watching scary movies. They wouldn't be able to outrun it. Hell, England would have laughed at him for suggesting it. Why run from something that isn't there?

"Yo, England? Do you trust me?" It wasn't something he was fond of asking. He knew England did, and he knew it was unfair to ask it. England, much like him, was allergic to demonstrating vulnerability, be it on the battlefield or in his personal life. Asking him such a question exposed them both in a great many ways, and some of those things they weren't quite ready to face. _Baby__steps_, America had thought to himself a few months ago.

"What kind of stupid bloody question is that?" England registered the panic in the American's voice, making his question a bit more high-pitched than was necessary.

"If I tell you to run and not look back, would you do it?"

"Ameri—"

"Yes or no?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he muttered, "Yes."

England might not have been of athletic build, but his lean body and powerful legs did for something. His height put him in a slight disadvantage, but he made up for it with agility. He could run if need be, like at that instance, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be caught. But this was different. Whatever was wavering beneath America's voice put him on edge, the frantic scan of blue eyes put him on high alert and he wasn't about to question that. Instead, he trusted his judgment, _something__utterly__ludicrous_, and ran like a madman.

America was close behind, not daring to look back to see if the creature was in pursuit. He didn't need to. He heard it clear, the dead silence that came with the looming terror his native people warded against for centuries before England himself arrived on his shores. For a brief moment, he shut his eyes and prayed for a miracle. Anything to get to the bar in once piece; back to the crowd of people who obviously had a few shotguns stashed away in their trucks. The wish was cut short however, when something wrapped around his ankle and pulled him back.

He fell with a panicked grunt, kicking helplessly against the thing as his hands scrambled against the red dirt.

England turned at the sound of something hitting the ground, and couldn't really process the sight of America being dragged away in such a macabre fashion. It looked like something out of a bad horror movie. He stopped in his tracks, unable to decide on what to do before running in America's direction. He didn't know what he was going to do, what he was up against, but England's put up with worse. Magic and the supernatural was something he dealt with on a daily basis back home in his lands, so he wasn't about to be thrown off by some murderous phantom intent on making away with his partner.

Skidding onto the ground, England grabbed America's wrist, pulling him away from the force dragging in the opposite direction. America twisted in the hold, trying and failing repeatedly to get free from the chilling grasp. Heart in his throat, nails clawing at anything he could find, his eyes met England's. "Go!"

"This isn't the time to play hero!" England pulled harder now that he had a firm hold on America's arm, but it reached the point where it was doing more harm than good. The creature's strength was enough to throw even America off, much to his chagrin.

Even then, England couldn't see what the cause of their distress was. He's playing a game of tug-of-war against something he couldn't see, therefore something he couldn't ward off with his magic. He needed to know what it was in order to counter it and so far he had no such luck. America was terrified, he was terrified, and he had no way of breaking loose.

Too wrapped up in the fruitless struggle, neither nation noticed the smooth rumbling of an engine, or the high beams of a car shinning directly in their direction. A gunshot though, seemed to have caught their attention long enough to make them all stop. Night had already fallen and the headlights left both America and England momentarily blinded. It didn't take them a second though, when they heard doors slam and rushed heavy footfalls, to notice that America had gotten free from the unnatural hold. They had time enough.

Riding the momentum, America jumped to his feet and tried to make a run for it, grateful for the momentary distraction. Each instinct in him urged him to turn back and fight, be the hero he was, but he was scared. Too scared and hurt to retaliate against something that wasn't supposed to exist, something he wasn't expecting. Give him a war and he'd fight to the death, but this… this was too much. This overpowered him on so many levels that he was sure he wouldn't be able to sleep for a few years. Gripping England tight, they ran, synchronized and didn't look back at the shouting and gunshots.

However, it wasn't all just going to be over. England had kind of figured that. When magic comes into play, no matter what kind, things are never easy. There's always more to it. Like a domino effect. Just one little action caused an unending chain of reactions until it was cut in one way or another. It was the natural order things.

That's why he wasn't at all surprised, even though it did startle him, when they ran face first into a man who had seemed to appear out of nowhere, stoic and still. The last thing England recalled was the color of his eyes, a blue so unnatural and unreal that they reminded him of America's own.

In America's case, too dazed to explicitly focus on anything, high on adrenaline, what he last saw was a billowing tan trench coat, silent against the thunderous fight behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Part II

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When American came to, his legs felt too heavy to move. It felt like his mouth was stuffed to full capacity with cotton, his head hurt and his stomach lurched unpleasantly with the promise of gagging whatever he had eaten earlier that day. He didn't have to look to understand that he was a mirror image to England once they had gotten to the bar, all beat up and wanting to roll up and die. Shifting, he winced when his ankle twitched in discomfort, probably sprained. Above him, he heard voices. A distinguished accent, which he knew belonged to England, and two other voices he couldn't quite pinpoint.

Sighing, America shifted again, hoping to get someone's attention without having to speak out. Or open his eyes. He wanted to drift back into unconsciousness, sleep for a few hours before he faced the world again. The dark and ultimately scary world. Slowly, it started to come back to him. All in thick inky blotches, the memories of the creature, the running— He did want to know exactly how he got to wherever he was. He also wanted to know how he hadn't been skinned and eaten.

"Okay, so, let me get this straight. You're a… country? How the hell is that even possible? I mean, we've seen a ton of crap over the years but this… this is new." A man spoke up, and the nature of his question made America grudgingly open his eyes and slowly sit up.

"It's the simplest way to explain it, yes." England replied, his hand automatically flying to hold America steady. "Don't rush, you'll only hurt yourself." It was then that he noticed the bandage on his ankle.

Fixing the glasses on his nose and casting a look around, America found himself back in the roadside bar, lying on one of the longer booths. His eyes took in the two men sitting across from him and England and cracked them a smile. Definitely his citizens, but that confused him. Why would England be telling them about their true identity? "We're alive?" His voice shook a bit as he pushed himself all the way up but managed to stay put.

"By the skin of your teeth." One of the two gave them a lopsided, uneasy smirk with an undertone of smugness too similar to England's own. America liked him already. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam."

"Alfred. I see you've gotten acquainted with Arthur already." Rubbing the back of his neck, he huffed loudly. "I feel like crap."

"You're lucky to be alive." Sam said with an apprehensive look. "You two are lucky we got there in time."

"What the hell happened anyway? Was that a—"

"Wendigo." Dean ever so helpfully clarified; ignoring Arthur's disbelieving snort and the way Alfred slumped like it was the end of the world. Which it was, but those two didn't need to know it.

"I've never heard of such a ludicrous thing. Monsters. On American soil, no less." England took a sip of his soda, having given up on his beer and leaned back, giving America an exasperated look. "Of all the things I've heard—"

"This coming from a talking country."

England ignored Dean's quip. "Alfred, you know—"

"He's right."

The confirmation knocked the words out of England's mouth, leaving him gawking at the other. Of all the things America was, he was never a believer. He laughed at England's face whenever he spoke of unicorns and the dark arts, saying that it was just a bunch of hooey England had deliberately crated to scare the crap out of him. Seeing him, hearing him, admit to such things existing was something more bizarre than what had just happened a mere hour ago. His blue eyes looked haunted, plagued by nightmares England feared he wouldn't be able to wish away by saying 'there's no such thing as monsters'.

"America…-"

"It was supposed to be a legend. I thought it was… well, I _thought_ it was supposed to be a legend. I kind of… only just remembered that yeah… those do exists." America ran a hand through his hair, tugging at Nantucket with frustration. "They're old. Really, _really_ old. I mean, before you even got here old." Turning his eyes back to the two men, he nodded blankly. It was so uncharacteristic of him England nearly felt sick. "Thanks, you two. What'd you do to it anyways?"

"Burned." Sam stated simply, shrugging like it was a normal thing to kill a mythological creature. "Cas is out scouting the area to see if there is any more rouge Wendigos out there. They shouldn't be out this far west."

"There's more than one?" That was definitely not a yelp. England would refuse to call it so until the day he died. "What the bloody hell are those things?"

"There's tons of lore on them. Some say they were once human, possessed by a type of demon that made you practically obsess over eating human flesh. Some kind of mutated cannibal." Pulling out his laptop, Sam continued. "They're fast, unnatural strong and known to snatch their pray and hang them up in their lair until it decides to feed. Pretty much a total bitch to hunt down since they hibernate and just as hard to kill them."

In some sort of twisted and macabre way, England was interested. America had never told him about those things and he honestly wished he did. He could only just imagine how amazing things would be between them once America opened up about his darker legends and supernatural tendencies. In one way or another, England figured the younger nation had his own system of the arts, if New Orleans was anything to go by. Each country had its dark side, their own kind of magic and otherworldly things. Some decided to dwell on it more than others, such as him and Norway, but other's like America refused to indulge and pushed and shoved such things into becoming the stuff of legends.

Now it had come back to bite America in the ass.

Said American sat awfully quiet beside him, seemingly contemplating the situation, too troubled to look at anyone anymore. England tried to feel sorry for him, but triumph and a looming _I__told__you__so_ kept him from comforting the young nation.

"As freaking fascinating as this all is, what's your story? I mean anto-…antrom—"

"Anthropomorphic." Sam was kind enough to offer.

"What he said. Countries? _Countries_? You're gonna have to give me more of a reason to not shoot your sorry asses."

England shot Dean a healthy glare that made Sam snicker discreetly as he hid behind the computer screen. "Aren't you a charming bloke?"

"I try."

The Briton bristled, causing America to giggle by his side. This Dean fellow reminded him too much of America; it was almost uncanny, minus the smug condescending air. Well, yes, America was a condescending bastard at times, but not in the same fashion as the young man.

"How does that work, exactly?" Ever the professional, Sam seemed genuinely interested in hearing what England had to say. This one he liked. He seemed like the studious type, thoughtful and patient. He seemed like the one that kept his brother grounded. Beside him, Dean snorted, tipping back his bottle of beer as he casually looked around, acting uninterested the whole time. "Is it like a possession?"

"Possession?" Leaning forward, America rested his elbows on the table. Not like he was going to sleep anytime soon in the coming year, so might as well listen in on what was what. "What do you mean by that?" Ever so curious, England thought fondly.

"When someone says country, one doesn't expect to see a human. Are those vessels? Like, human bodies which you possessed in order to walk around?" Sam was at a loss at trying to explain it. It wasn't in his job description to describe what a possession was; how it _worked_, maybe, but not the actual mechanics of it. It felt weird coming out of his mouth. Normally it was either exorcise it or stab it; the Winchesters didn't stop and explain.

England looked taken aback by the assumption while America simply stared in confusion. "You mean like… a ghost or a spirit or something?"

The brothers nodded.

"I'll gladly inform you that these are our bodies." He was being a bit defensive, but who was to blame him. England knew what they were talking about. He knew they were hunters, and the thought alone that two little humans thought themselves clever enough to take him out was insulting. You couldn't just kill a country in its physical state, not the human body. It could be maimed, broken, but it'll eventually heal again. England was a living example of that. He had survived the Blitz after all.

But something else lied behind the thought.

These boys were dealing with forces beyond any other human was capable of, forces England was familiar with. Heavens knew what they had up their sleeve and that set him on edge. It wasn't everyday an enemy tried to wipe them off the map with magic. Unless you counted that one time Hitler had tried that phony excuse for preternatural powers…

"I don't get it," came Dean's ever so eloquent reply. "If you're England, wouldn't that make you a million years old? You don't like any older than Sam."

"We grow along with our people. Our bodies develop accordingly to our economic and political prowess. You hurt our land, you hurt our bodies. We're fully sentient and yes, some of us are really old though we may not look it." Accent thick, England tried his best approach to properly explain. "If you want to get technical, I'm currently stuck at twenty three. America, _Alfred_, is nineteen."

"So you're _the_ US of A, huh." Sam scoffed disbelievingly, but in no way harshly. He looked impressed and a bit confused, but in a positive way.

"The awesome one and only." Thumb up; America shoved it into his chest, puffing it out in a manly display of… something. It was ridiculous.

"Sam, you can't possibly tell me you're buying this?"

"I don't know, Dean. Why would someone lie about something like this?"

"Have you been paying any attention these last couple of years?"

"They speak the truth." The four men were startled from their nucleus discussion when a fifth voice spoke above them, grave and intimidating and terribly out of place. "Though it's a lot more complicated and complex than what's already been discussed."

England felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He recognized him as the man he and America had last seen before they woke up in the bar. Perhaps it had been the adrenaline pumping through him when it happened, but he hadn't noticed the pull. He didn't know what kind of pull it was, just an odd feeling settled in his gut. England wasn't oblivious; he recognized power when he saw it, and this he felt it vibrating in his bones, deeply seated and contrasting with his own darker aura. This man wasn't human.

Sam sighed, settling the blood pumping through him. He hated it when he was startled without good reason. Call it hunter instinct. "You two, this is Castiel. He's a friend of ours."

"You aren't human." It was out before he could stop himself and couldn't care less. England tried not to feel cornered, but he did. He ignored America's stare. "I can feel it."

They were all silent, including the bar around them. The two ladies from earlier that night hovered about in the background, silently taking in what they were discussing. Judging by the friendly handshakes and hugs, he figured the Winchesters knew them.

Castiel's eyes were unlike anything he had ever seen before, he noticed now while he stared into them steadily. Not even America's eyes could compare, and that was saying something. Those blue eyes brimmed with power and knowledge beyond England's own vast understanding, but he didn't fear him. Didn't fear him because England too could take a similar form.

"I am an Angel of the Lord."

England suppressed the urge to roll his eyes when America inhaled sharply and muttered an 'Oh my God', followed by a loud slap. Covering his mouth, he stifled an 'I'm so sorry!' as he shuffled back into his seat. Annoyance set in. While it took England years to convince America of the existence of faye folk to no avail, all one guy had to do was say that he was angel and already he was freaking out over it. Westerners and their religious things; it was ridiculous. However, he felt America shift beside him and it hit him like a truck. Without missing a beat, England jammed an elbow into his gut, getting a good grunt out of him. He _dared_ America to mention Britannia Angel.

"Allow me to verify something. You doubt us being nations… and yet you're walking around with an… angel in tow? Thank you, however; for whatever it was you did back there." England was mindful to being a gentleman and acting grateful either way.

Castiel nodded once before walking around the booth and sitting besides Dean who didn't seem to mind. England wasn't impressed. Britannia Angel was something ethereal, celestial looking… while this bloke looked… well, _human_. Attractive, sure, his eyes were something else and his curve of his lips was pleasant to look at. Other than that, he seemed too thin, short and simple. Even the coat was too big on him.

Something lit up in England head however, when he noticed the brief exchange of looks between Dean and the angel. He couldn't help but squeeze America's thigh in turn. Long fingers automatically laced through his. As oblivious as he tended to be, America had noticed it too.

"I scouted the area; so far no other entities are about. I did, however, come across this." Reaching into one of the pockets of his tan coat, Cas pulled out a small velvet bag and set it on the table. Everyone instinctively leaned in to take it in. Dean groaned and scoffed, leaned back into his seat and gestured his hand around in exasperation.

"Well that's freaking fantastic. Wendigos, talking countries and now witches?"

England's shoulders visibly tensed though it went unnoticed.

"Listen to this." Sam interrupted wearily, turning the laptop in their general direction. "There are storms bordering the east and west coast. The rest seems clear." He stopped for what England only imagined to be a dramatic effect. "All but Nebraska."

Dean barked out a laugh. "Great, now we have demonic omens."

Beside England, America tensed tenfold, his hand tightening its grip. He was genuinely scared now, as if he hadn't been already, but throwing witches and demons into the mix was the icing on the cake. "We should have stayed in New York."

"Glad to see we agree on something." England muttered back, taking a swig of his soda, the tension radiating off of him nearly palpable. He wouldn't be surprised if the angel picked up on it.

"Right, so I suggest you guys shag ass back to New York before the shit hits the fan. It's gonna get ugly. Witches. It's always ugly when there are witches. Don't get me started on demons." Dean shook the butt of his beer bottle, gesturing towards the doors.

"No way! We're on our way to Washington and stuff, so there's no turning back. Plus, our car kind of broke down…"

"More like you drove it into a ditch."

"Shut up, Arthur!" America flushed, giving his boyfriend a shove for lack of anything better to do. Dean was looking amused, realization dawning on him. Judging by the fond look on his face, Sam had deduced it by now as well. Castiel on the other hand, just deadpanned.

"This is a pleasant surprise. Nonhumans who aren't total dicks. Though you kind of look like one." Dean aimed at England with a smirk and wink. Predictably, the Briton bristled. It was too hilarious to pass up.

"Castiel isn't a human." America stated while pushing up his glasses, giving the angel one of his trademark smiles.

"Exactly my point."

"Some friend you've got there." Castiel looked at England, measuring his tone and deciding that he was probably trying to be humorous though the joke escaped him.

"Naw, Cas here is an exception to the rule. He used to be, but that was a long time ago." Dean patted Castiel's shoulder, earning himself a barely visible smile from the ruffled angel.

One of the ladies from before stepped up to the booth, setting a few beers on the table and two cans of soda for those unable to hold their liquor, namely England, and made a gruff gesture. She didn't look too pleased, and both America and England were starting to think her face never eased off that expression. "What's the news, boys? Anything I need to get these guys suited up for?" She was talking about the few patrons still littered across the bar, wrapped up in their own conversations. They were no longer shooting America tense glances.

England finally made the connection. The Winchesters weren't the only hunters there. Everyone else probably had a few shotguns in their trucks. Perhaps the supernatural and paranormal wasn't as obscure as he had thought.

Sam said something along the lines of 'Thanks, Ellen', but was cut off by Dean's own louder voice. "Omens. Something's up, we just don't know what. Keep your eye out for witches though and anything else nasty smelling."

The woman, Ellen, nodded tersely. "I'll tell Jo to get the guns and salt. How 'bout you two?" She gestured towards America and England who were still a little shaken by just about everything. They hadn't the slightest idea about what to do or how to get out of the state. "There's a motel a few miles from here, but no one's willing to give you a ride after the fiasco. Not that I blame 'em. Whatever's out there seems to be honing in on you two."

Feeling his jaw drop, America gave England a panicked look. "Us? What's that supposed to mean? We haven't done anything!"

"Did you three know about this?" England asked the other's accusingly, his green eyes fierce when a wave of protectiveness lit up behind them. He didn't like the sound of any of it. Things were getting bad fast and the thought of him and America being in the middle of it made his gut twist sickeningly. There was a reason why he kept America out of the things he did…

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, their expressions hardening into steely professionalism. "It was a possibility. Not that we knew what we were looking for, but there's no such thing as a coincidence in our line of work. Walking, talking countries kind of hits the nail, don't you think?" Sam tried his best joke but all efforts were in vain.

"We are stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere." Lip upturned in a snarl, America gawked, this was the old Empire beginning to shine through. England was rightfully pissed and he somewhat feared for the brothers' wellbeing, not that they seemed fazed in the slightest. They've probably faced worse to even bother worrying about a shorty English guy with furry eyebrows. "Apparently there are various entities of sinister nature closing in on us and we have no means to defend ourselves, we have reservations three days from now in a lodge, I've got a terrible sunburn and I haven't taken a spot of tea in over a day. I am not the happiest person upon this earth right now so I suggest you pack up your wiseass remarks and get us out of this God forsaken place!"

"Listen, you douche bag. We're hunters, not babysitters. You get your own sorry British ass out of here or—"

"Dean." Sam spoke up sharply, giving Dean a healthy bitchface. "Do forgive him. He's just not in the mood 'cause apparently he hasn't gotten any in the last week or so."

American giggled while Dean glared at his brother, England pointedly glared at him while Castiel stared at Dean. It was a web of stares and glares more complex than anything any kind of spider could weave. And to the bystanders, namely Ellen and Jo, it was the most amusing thing going on in the bar.

"Why not just give them a lift to the motel, then? Keep 'em close in case anything decides to pop in and pay them a visit." Ellen suggested mildly, picking up an old rag as she made her way behind the bar to polish the wooden surface. It was late, way late, and there were hardly any costumers left. Closing time was just around the corner.

Dean twisted his nose. "They are _not_ getting in my car."

"Dean." Castiel's voice was steady though urgent as he placed his hand over Dean's knee. Not that anyone could see, but it was a private almost intimate gesture that made Dean stop and consider their options. "Ellen has a point. It would be best to keep them under a watchful eye." Sam gave an approving nod.

England wasn't happy about the agreement, and he could tell that neither was America. But at that point in time, what could they do? The best course of action was staying near someone who knew what to do when something came creeping in the night. "Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"It's up to you."

Skewed glasses caught the overhead light, making his usually expressive eyes momentarily unreadable. He didn't want any of this. He just wanted to leave and never look back, but there was no other choice. "Awesome, I say we go for it!" There was fake enthusiasm there, but England let him be.

"Whatever then. Get what you need and hurry it up. Let's get this show on the road."

They spread out in a moment's notice, America getting their luggage Ellen had been kind enough to store in the back of the bar while they had hiked back to their old truck, and England talking to Sam about whatever it was that was going on and how they could fight against it. It took them a good twenty minutes before they all managed to meet up by Dean's car, something which helped forge an unbreakable bond between America and Dean almost instantly.

"Dude! This is like… the epitome of sweet rides!" America bolted, ecstatic and nearly jumping in his shoes as he took in the classic car. England wasn't one for admiring cars, but America had a serious thing for them. Such a thing, in fact, that during their summer vacations he spent most of his time car show hopping. He was also a very good mechanic. But, even the sour Englishman had to admit that it was a very nice automobile. Black, sleek and dangerous; fitting, regarding the Winchesters' job. "I owned a '64 back in the day. '67 may have belonged to Ford, but that was most definitely the Impala's best year."

Dean beamed, all irrational grudges aside. Give him someone who likes cars, well, _his__baby_ at least, just as much as he did and he guaranteed a beautiful friendship. "Had to rebuild her a few times, but I can assure, all authentic parts. This baby purrs like nothing you've ever heard before, most precious thing in my life at this moment."

Sam and Cas deadpanned; England had to look away in order to not burst out laughing at the insulted looks.

After both egos and heads cooled out, and Dean grudgingly shoving their luggage into his trunk (thankfully the damn things weren't too big, since there was barely any space in there to begin with), he made sure to point out as loudly as possible that they were both two white collar assholes. England and America didn't take his words to heart after Sam enlightened them on his brother's not so pleasant humor.

The ride to the motel was awkward, after another wave of enthusiastic chattering over Dean's taste in music, they all settled into silence. The angel squished between America's large body and England's leaner one. Castiel was used to riding on the back, alone, now he felt claustrophobic. You can't just cage in an Angel of the Lord. It was bad enough he had to rely on automobiles for transportation due to his dwindling grace, but sandwiched between two more nonhuman beings was crossing a line. America he didn't mind, being reminded of Dean whenever he opened his mouth to speak; England though. There was a strong tension between them neither one mentioned, but he would rather not stir the water. Not when there was an impending fight looming just over the horizon.

"So… you guys been doing this long?" America couldn't handle the silence. He hated it. So he made sure to break it with his ridiculously loud voice.

"Too long." Was the only dry answer he got from Dean. Sam nodded in agreement, leaning his forehead against the glass before pulling out his phone and seemingly sending out a text.

No one bothered to elaborate.

"Monsters. That's kind of serious." England yelped when an elbow was rammed into his side. He still wondered how America had managed that with Cas between them. "You're a lying asshole, you know that Arthur?"

"The hell's that supposed to mean, you bloody twat?"

"All this time you kept telling me there was no such a thing!"

"All this time you kept insisting I was insane and were only seeing things!"

"Well, yeah! Unicorns and fairies and shit! Not monsters and ghosts and whatever the crap else!"

"I'll—"

"You two just need to shut up!" Dean's voice boomed, both countries falling immediately silent at the threat threading the deep voice. "If I hear another peep out of either one of you, so help me God I'll leave you on the side of the damn freeway, you hear?"

Seconds seemed like ages, the only sound in the enclosed space being the smooth humming of the Impala's engine and the wheels rolling along the asphalt bellow. Not even their breathing was loud enough to hear properly after Dean's burst. Sam was the first to break the ominous silence with a well placed "Well, this is awkward."

Thirty minutes in and there was still no sign of a motel.

America's nervous fidgeting was making Castiel feel sick, if such a thing were even possible, so he acted accordingly by placing a hand on his knee. A sense of calm rushed over the country, so warm and comfortable it nearly made him cry. He slumped back, casting England a soft smile before shutting his eyes. He wasn't asleep, but his deep even breaths were deceiving. Through the rearview mirror, Dean thanked Castiel with a look but said nothing. He discreetly looked over to England who was staring at the window with a thoughtful expressions; Cas let him be.

* * *

><p>It had been the longest forty-five minutes in England's life when they finally reached a gravel parking lot of a not so comfy looking motel. But in the middle of nowhere, it was hard to be picky. They all puddle out of the car, America looking pathetically relaxed, which made England suspicious, and made for the front desk. Dean stood behind with America to unload the luggage while Sam and England asked for two separate rooms. Of course, the tab was shoved in the country's face.<p>

The clock struck two in the morning but it wasn't like anyone was going to get any sleep. Dean and America were still bonding, laughing and shoving each other over the Impala in the empty lot. Cas sat idly on the wooden steps leading up to the rooms, carefully watching Dean with an unreadable expression on his features. He seemed to do that a lot, England guessed while staring out the room window, holding the nasty green curtain to the side. Behind him, sitting on a small round table was Sam, leafing through yesterday's newspaper, looking for any kind of hint of what was going on in Nebraska.

"Any crop circle sightings?" England joked lightly from his place by the window, his accent muffled by fatigue. He needed sleep, but he wasn't about to shut his eyes until he and America were far from danger. "I've seen a lot of corn since I arrived, wouldn't be surprised."

Sam snorted, dropping the paper on the table. "None, though I don't think aliens are behind this."

Nodding with relief, England turned fully towards the younger brother. "The Apocalypse. You mean to tell me that, yes, there is a God and that Satan is currently walking the Earth? Everything we've been told by our leaders, Global Warming is all just some joke to cover up something of biblical proportions?" It had been bothering him all this time since Sam had briefly mentioned it back in the bar. He had a real hard time believing any of it, but the last few hours were working on his skepticism.

"Sounds about right."

"How can we not have noticed this?"

"How does that work, exactly? The whole country thing? Do you just… know stuff? What does it encompass?" Leaning forward on the table, Sam rested his head on his hands like a child enraptured by a bedtime story. It was obvious that he was interested. The blatant curiosity reminded him of America, and the thought summoned a smile before he could stop it.

"Everything. It encompasses everything."

"You mentioned politics and economy."

"That part is pretty self explanatory. The stronger the nation, the better the build. Alfred is a superpower, which is why he's so big considering his age. His strength is something to behold, as well. Curious, loves meddling in people's business though he does it with good intentions… terribly headstrong." Sam nodded, slowly making connections in his head. "Our ties are also established through politics. Allies and enemies are no exception."

"So the United States and England are in good terms… which means that you and Alfred are friends?"

England hesitated momentarily before nodding. "Correct. Though Alfred and I have bonded in ways that are deeper than politics. We have quite a history, no pun intended."

"It does affect your personal life, then. Just not as much?"

"It's a lot more complex than that. You see, during the Second World War, Germany and I weren't in the best of terms. I'm sure you know this, common knowledge and all. We saw each other at the battle fronts, we fought, shot each other and yet we managed to be civil during world meetings. The tension is always there, but it doesn't always influence our actions. France and I have a peace treaty, our governments are being calm and diplomatic… and yet I have a record for being pulled away by Canada to stop me from strangling him."

Sam barked out a laugh at that. "Sounds fun."

"It isn't." His expression was solemn, almost sad. "We can't die easily and yet we feel when one of our citizens passes on. I felt the bombs of the Blitz on my skin; I felt my bones break after every Viking invasion… I've felt my heart ache when wars of Independence were declared against my rule. Century after century of bad calls and rotten choices. It feels like I can never be at peace with myself. I do what I can even if it feels like it isn't enough."

There was a moment of silence, both men lost in their own little world of thought. The words ran deep, and England had no idea why he was telling this to some human _boy_. Something pulled him into Sam's gravity. Much like him, it looked like the younger of the Winchesters had the world on his shoulders.

"You truly are the incarnation of England." Sam's voice was deep, warm and rich. Thoughtful with an edge of eloquence and emotion. "It feels like I'm talking to fucking Shakespeare. Heads up, we don't do chick flick moments."

England barked out a laugh that was quickly accompanied by Sam's own dorky guffaws. "You Americans wouldn't recognize culture if it hit you in the face with a spade."

"You're talking to someone who spends eight hours a day in a Chevy listening to nothing other than AC/DC, Zeppelin and Metallica. Dean obliterated any sense of culture in me."

The laughing wouldn't stop even after the rapid knocking on the door. England pulled it open and saw a shocked America simply staring at him in surprise, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. "Did I miss something?"

Struggling to catch his breath, England waved him off. "Nothing, it's nothing."

"Where's my jerk of a brother?" Sam asked from over England's shoulder, his laughter dying down to a half smirk as he scratched the back of his head.

"No idea." America answered with a shrug. "He said he'd be back in a bit, though. I saw him leave with Cas." He noticed Sam roll his eyes but said nothing more. "As for you." Grabbing England's wrist, he pulled him outside into the cold night air. "You need some sleep." There was something England didn't want to argue with. Waving at Sam halfheartedly, he stumbled out.

"I figured you wouldn't be able to sleep for a few decades."

"I won't. But that doesn't mean you won't. You've had a bad day to begin with so let's just turn in." The warmth in America's voice made England smile.

He leaned against his boyfriend, tugging at the sleeve of his freshly retrieved bomber jacket. "Git. I don't need to sleep. Hell, I don't think I'd be able too. Not with this tension."

"Well…" America trailed off, stopping in the hallway to pull England against him. "I can think of a few ways to get rid of that stupid tension." Leaning in, he pressed a chaste kiss to the Englishman's lips. "What do you say?"

"You? Attempting to be seductive? It most definitely is the end of the world."

"You're a jerk, England."

They kissed again, this time steadily, England's hands slipping inside America's jacket and running along his sides. Every fiber in him wanted to ravish the American right then and there, but America was shivering for entirely different reasons. He was scared. And while sex might have been the perfect way to get his mind off of it all, England opted to do it America's way for once. Pulling away, he breathed against his lips. "Come on, Alfred. Let's watch the stars for a little while, hm?"

That brilliant smile would forever be worth it.

For over an hour, they sat in silence in the same set of steps Castiel had perched on. England leaning against the wooden post, America tucked under his arm and they gazed up at the starry sky. Clouds were beginning to roll in around the edges, but they refused to move until it was nearly impossible to see them. They spent their time in silence, idly touching whatever they could reach. It was comforting, relaxing almost, and England knew he wouldn't have traded that for the world.

In the near distance, he noticed the Impala door swing open. Dean stepped out, stretching his back awkwardly as he adjusted his jacket. England's eyebrow shot up. He was sure the car had been there the entire time. _Why__would__he__sleep_— the train of thought was cut off by an 'Oh' when a wobbly Castiel stumbled out after him.

England watched silently as Dean turned towards the mussed angel, running a hand through the dark hair before helping him back into his tan trench coat. They stood there, exchanged brief words before Dean took hold of the tie and pulled him in for a long kiss. Dean had never struck him as the type, what with his macho attitude and all, but with an angel like Castiel perched on his shoulder, England couldn't really blame him. Soft smiles played on their respective faces, resulting in England pulling America a bit more tightly against him at the tender display. Looking down when he was met by a lack of movement, he found him fast asleep, glasses knocked off to the side.

"You're braver than you know, America." Plucking the glasses off, he slipped them into the bomber jacket for safe keeping. His ass was beginning to cramp up from holding the awkward position, and he realized, to his eternal horror, that no matter how much he pushed or pulled, America wasn't going to budge. "Fuck."

"Need a hand?"

Dean hovered above them, a soft smiling Castiel by his side. They both looked in a better mood than earlier, but England didn't have to question it. "You try moving the United States of America."

With a snicker, Dean cast Cas a look. "Don't worry, we got it covered."

Before England could blink, the four of them were safely in their motel room. Castiel draped America onto the bed; the brute didn't even budge. "That was… uh… thank you? Just… warn me, next time." England dropped onto the edge of the bed, nauseous and clutching at his head. Cas mirrored him, having used up more of what little power he had left, but Dean was quickly by his side.

"You okay, Cas?"

The angel nodded. "I'm fine, Dean." That didn't stop him from gripping his arm, worriedly.

"Come on; let's get back to the room." Dean said sternly as he helped Cas back on his feet, holding him tight to his side as they made for the door. "Anything happens, don't hesitate to call. Salt the door." Without casting another look back, both men disappeared into the hallway and into their respective room where Sam was probably waiting.

After shutting the door with every bolt installed, it was only then that England slumped down tiredly against the scratched door. He went for his luggage to fetch some clean trousers to slip in to and instead noticed something red and utterly flamboyant. Slamming his palm against his face, England groaned in utter frustration. He should have known better than to leave his luggage unattended under America's care.

There was a store bought pirate coat, smelling of plastic and dust, draped over the rest of his normal clothing. Of course America wouldn't have passed up the opportunity to celebrate Halloween, but England figured this was a lot more than what he had bargained for. Shuffling the ridiculous coat towards the bottom of the luggage, he grabbed the loosest pair of trousers he could find and placed them on the small table side chair. It wouldn't hurt to make use of the shower.

Thunder rumbled loudly overhead before the sound of rain hitting pavement reached his ears. The tension was back along with the howl of wind that gave him a chill to the bones. _Demonic__omens_, he remembered Dean mention back at the bar, but he didn't quite know what those consisted of. Was it like any other storm, only more violent? Or did demons really did come in riding the storms to wreak havoc on the city? England swallowed hard. He hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with those, or if his magic even worked against them. The one time he tried to summon one he had brought forth Ivan Braginski, which was irrelevant to the situation, still the memory made him shiver in terror. Perhaps salting the door was the best option. Never had he heard of such a thing, but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Dean Winchester knew what he was talking about.

If only they had salt in the room.

"Damn it to hell."

Slipping on his jacket, England made for the door, intent on asking Dean to get him some salt from the car if they didn't have any to spare in their room. Taking the key, he made sure to lock the door behind him, leaving a slumbering American lying blissfully in the horribly looking bed.

* * *

><p>No sun seeped in through the thin curtains of the motel windows the coming morning; instead it was the lightening crash that made America jump up, startled. Clutching his chest to sooth his rapidly beating heart, he chanced a look around the dark room, looking for the neon lights of the clock. <em>Eight<em>_thirty__in__the__morning._ With a groan, he grudgingly sat up. He couldn't really believe he had managed to fall asleep after yesterday's nightmare, much less sleep so peacefully.

Stretching, he slipped out of his jacket. "Yo, England. Wanna go grab some breakfast?" He toed on his shoes, not remembering how exactly they had gotten off, and jumped onto his feet, making a beeline for the bathroom. Once he reached the door, however, he forced himself to stop and really look around.

England wasn't in the room.

His luggage was splayed open on one side of the room, a pair of clean pants draped over the chair. Looking around a bit more closely, panic started to kick in. As scatterbrained as he was, England never left without his phone; yet there it was, on the night table. The bolt and chain were unlocked though there was one less key on the table.

A knock on the door made America stumble over his feet to get it, yanking it open, he saw Sam standing there with two Styrofoam cups, his hair soaked through. His face fell when he noticed the distraught look on the man's face. "You okay, man?"

"Arthur's gone."


	3. Chapter 3

Part III

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America was soaked to the bone as he stood at mid parking lot, eyes scanning the nearest areas, ignoring the rain stinging said eyes as he automatically hit speed dial. He needed Matthew. Having judged by the last call, he should have arrived at the motel by now, but there was still no sign of his twin brother. Call it moral support, or his need to bitch at someone since the Winchesters weren't having it. Squelching boots paced back and forth, anxiety seeping through the cracks of his grin that had begun to falter after the first hour of searching.

The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on England's shoulder, soothed by the steady breathing and the calm atmosphere. He had felt safe, so his mind automatically assumed it was alright to catch some shuteye. Luckily, Dean had mentioned that he and Cas had brought them back into their room, assuring him that America had not been the last one to see him. Too many crime shows told him that was a good thing, in a way. The information didn't calm him for long.

This was supposed to have been a relaxing vacation. Something private and warm and romantic. Had he known it was going to turn into some messed up horror movie; he would have done what he planned to do back in New York. Slipping a hand into his bomber jacket's pocket, he fingered the small velvet box resting at the bottom with a tired sigh. Messing up was one thing, putting England in danger was something he couldn't forgive himself for. America kicked the nearest garbage can, sending it hurtling down the desolate hallway.

"There's nothing for miles. I checked in with Ellen, said she hasn't seen him since last night. He couldn't have gotten very far on foot." Sam tried his best to sound reassuring without having to lie about the situation. Unless someone had shoved the Englishman into a van and drove off with him, he couldn't have been very far. "Do you guys have enemies?"

"He's the freaking United States, Sammy." Dean stated irritably behind them, rummaging through the Impala's trunk.

America smiled at that. "Dean's right. Everybody loves the most awesome country in the world!"

"And he's also delusional."

"Hey!" Huffing indignantly, America was mature enough to stick his tongue out. "No, I don't have any enemies around at the moment. Nearest country is my brother, who should have been here hours ago. He won't pick up his phone."

Dean deadpanned and muttered something along the lines of _'__How__did__I__get__stuck__with__these__morons__' _before shutting the trunk, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

But before anyone could agree, a shift in the wind and the soft sound of wings stopped them. Cas was there in less than a blink, leaving America more than a little spooked. He could never get used to something just… appearing out of the blue. "Something isn't right."

"Tell us something we don't know, Cas." There was no real venom in Dean's voice as he whipped his hand around exasperatedly, but he did stare at the angel expectantly, hand tightening its grip in the bag's strap. "Well?" He urged him when Cas took a moment to look around, his blue eyes more than a little curious, brow furrowed.

"There are no demons in the immediate area, but I may be wrong. There are, though, strong waves of magic coming from the west. It may be a witch, a powerful one for me to able to sense it this far." America found Castiel's voice to be annoying but decided against stating it. He watched detachedly as Dean hurried to angel's side, taking a good hold of his arms and walking him towards the car. "I'm fine, Dean."

"Sure you are. Get your ass in the car before I tie you down. And no more disappearing acts, you hear?" It prompted America to smile, seeing the worry lacing Dean's green eyes. They reminded him of England's own, only paler but just as deep and battle worn. He missed England.

A hand came down on his shoulder, startling him. "We'll find him." Sam said reassuringly. "And we'll gank whatever it is that's causing all this trouble, trust me." They both looked in opposite directions, America focusing back on Dean and Cas thoughtfully while Sam stared at something else entirely. "Hey, uh, Alfred? Is that your brother by any chance?"

They watched as a pale gray sedan pulled into the parking lot, idled momentarily before the engine was cut off. Out stepped another person, wrapped tight in a windbreaker and a red ski hat. He waved in the general direction of where the Impala was parked before trudging over. America didn't hesitate on pulling him in for a hug.

Dean joined them in the middle of the greeting fest, gesturing towards the two men hugging with a confused look on his face. Sam just answered with a shrug.

America pulled away first, hand still around the newcomer's shoulder, causing him to somewhat flinch with an uneasy smile. "Sam, Dean, this is my bro Matthew. Matt, Sam and Dean."

That's when they really saw him. He was about Alfred's same height, same facial structure. Hell, they could have been twins for all they knew. Only visible difference was the frames of their glasses and the shade of their eyes; while Alfred's was pure blue, Matthew's was a weird shade of pale violet. Call them crazy, but they were sure that eye colour did not exist.

Stretching out his hand, Sam shook Matt's cautiously while Dean just made a mock salute. Awkward greetings over with, Matthew turned to Alfred and patted him in the arm. "Trick or treat."

America's smile fell, shocking his Canadian counterpart. "Yeah, some Halloween this turned out to be."

"Eh? What's wrong? Did something happen? Besides getting stranded with Arthur in the middle of nowhere?" Matthew pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, shifting under the rain and wondering why exactly they weren't standing under the dry hallway. He voted against asking.

"The mighty British Empire went AWOL. We're heading off to find him." Dean clarified simply, not wanting to go into an elaborate conversation of breaking down the nonexistent crime scene. He just wanted to get the fuck out of the rain.

As if Matt's eyes weren't large enough, they widened at the new information, staring at Alfred in confusion. "When did this happen? Why didn't you call me, Al? I could have kept an eye out!"

There it was again.

It hit America with the force of a truck; the feeling of something not being right. Something was lurking near and he could almost feel it, he just couldn't decide on what. Panic settled in again, but this time, Sam noticed. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm cool." He lied through his teeth and he knew for a fact nobody believed him, but they thankfully didn't press. "Anyways, I did call you, jerk. You wouldn't pick up."

Fishing for his phone, Matt frowned. "How long ago was it? There's a dead zone a few miles from here so—"

"Wait." Sam was quick to interrupt. "A dead zone? Where, exactly?"

Looking nervously at the ridiculously tall man (really, he was taller than himself), Matt fiddled with his phone, eyes downcast. "About a thirty minute drive from here? It's not just phone signals, though. My watch went bonkers and my car just died. Have you ever tried pushing an average sized sedan for a quarter of a mile? In the pouring rain? What the hell is going on, eh?"

"Long story, but it looks like we have our lead." Dean gestured towards his car; Sam took the wordless order and made for it. "Usually demons would cause these, but magic can dampen anything in the air if it's powerful enough." Turning on his heels, Dean opened his trunk again and pulled out a small box. "Keep these on." He threw its contents in the general direction of the North American brothers, who aptly caught them in mid air. "They're for protection. Prevents you from getting possessed."

"Possessed?" Matthew yelped, though barely audible, by Alfred's side. He cast him a panicked look, demanding an explanation ASAP. That was, until he looked at the small item on his palm. The necklace was leather, the small pendant on the end polished silver. The thought of hanging a pentagram around his neck left him spooked, but America nodded, assuring him that it was okay.

"These guys know what they're doing, Mattie." America made quick about slipping on the necklace. His brother mirrored him.

"Don't know if countries can get possessed, but better safe than sorry. Don't want to have to shoot down the US at a bad time. Or—"

"Canada."

"—Canada, for that matter. Wait. _Canada_?"

"Remember when Arthur said it was complicated? He wasn't joking." With a crooked grin, America gave Dean a shrug.

"That's messed up."

"You should have seen the Revolution."

Dean stared long and hard at the American before huffing and heading towards the driver's side of his sleek ride, shoulders hunched up with an expression he couldn't read. Not that he was good at reading the atmosphere to begin with. "History was never my forte, so let's just get this show on the road. Alfred, you follow with Matthew. Make sure you keep a pretty good distance, just to be on the safe side."

"I-I'm coming along? Wait, Alfred, where… What's going on? What's he talking about? And what's with these necklaces and—and…" Canada's unending stream of questions fell on death ears as America made his way to the car, not bothering to ask if he could take the wheel. Standing under the rain, his jacket, jeans and hat soaked through, Canada brooded. When America said he was in trouble, this wasn't what he was expecting. Muttering something in French, he slipped into the passenger's side.

"Shittiest Halloween ever." America sighed, shutting off the radio and lowering the window when the Winchesters' Chevy pulled up beside them.

Sam leaned over, handing America a sawed off shotgun which Canada immediately took, looking ten times more interested than he was. "Salt rounds. Won't kill a human, but it'll ward off anything freaky for a little while; slow 'em down." Behind the wheel, Dean didn't look too happy about giving them one of their guns. "Don't hesitate, just shoot. It'll most likely save your asses." With that said, the Impala drove on, the incessant rain making the paint job look shinier than any car America had ever seen. He seriously had to get himself one once the whole ordeal was over.

America eased out into the road, giving Canada an awkward look. "Never knew you were one for guns."

"America, we've been hunting together for the past one hundred years, remember?" With a deadpan look, Canada clung to the gun, pulling up his leg to sit on them. It was freezing even with the heater on. "What's this about demons?"

"They're real."

"You're part Christian. Didn't you know that?"

"Well, yeah, but. I didn't think they'd be coming after me and England because whatever. Plus, those ain't the only things. We got attacked by a Wendigo last night. Cas thinks there's a witch calling the shots—"

"Cas?"

"The angel. He was already in the car when you got here."

Glasses skewed, Canada stared at America, harder than he had ever stared at anything before. "An angel." He wondered briefly if this truly was his brother, the same America he had been raised with. "Are you high?"

"What?" Momentarily pulling his eyes off the road, he gave his brother a funny look. "Why you say that?"

"Two days ago you didn't believe in your shadow, America. And now you're into the whole angels and demons and Wendy's…"

"_Wendigos_. Matt, things are different now and stuff. They took Arthur." He had switched to their human names in private, something he rarely did, but America figured it was called for in order to express the depth of the situation they were currently in. "I'll just ride this out until I get him back and that's it. Once it's over, I'll bury it again. Go back to being the awesomeness that is me, minus the g-ghosts and goblins."

Canada didn't reply, just turned his sights to the road ahead.

Twenty minutes later, the Winchester's pulled onto the side of the road and poured out. America followed suit and parked further behind.

The scenery was a drastic change opposed to the miles and miles of dry earth America and England had seen in the direction they were driving, then again, what was expected for Nebraska in late October. This, however, chilled America to the bone. He knew his territory, knew his landscapes like the back of his hand because they _are_. But this was something entirely new. The rolling green didn't belong there, the towering pine trees and moss growing on the gray boulders. Something shifted in him, the same nagging feeling from before. This wasn't a part of him, it didn't belong there.

"Alfred." Sam's voice pulled him out of the mental vacuum, nearly making him stumble. He leaned against Canada's car just to be sure. "What's wrong?" There was something in his eyes that told him that yes; Sam did know something was up with him. "Are you sensing something?"

Dean and Cas walked up to them, the angel casting weary looks around them as they went. America nodded slightly, tugging his wet jacket closer to him. It had stopped raining, but thunder still crashed overhead, the sky too dark for it to be noon. "This isn't real." He said, gesturing towards the mysterious forest. "It isn't part of my geography. I can't stand looking at it."

"Why?" Dean so eloquently asked, looking confused, opposite to Sam's intrigued expression.

"Ever grown a third arm?"

"No."

"Exactly." Acknowledging the comparison, Dean shrugged. He knew what it was to be around things that seemed to bend the crap out of reality. He never got used to it. "It feels weird. Not alien but… unreal? It's a different feeling all on its own."

"He's right." From beside Dean, Castiel spoke up. Maybe it was America's imagination, but he looked strung out. There were bags under his eyes and if he wasn't mistaking, a blood stain in the corner of his nose. It worried him more than it should have. The angel picked up on America's concern and gave him a comforting look, as if telling him it was going to be alright. But it was gone before he could even blink. "This isn't real. Something is causing an illusion, something powerful. I was right, there are no demons here."

"It looks like Cotswold." Canada was kind enough to put his two cents in, his eyes never leaving Castiel's tense form. "In England; there's a small forest there that looks just like this one."

America's eyes turned to Canada, his blue hues bugged out for a moment. "It does?" All he got in return was a nod. "Guess it does. What do we do then?"

"We go in." Stated Dean plainly, throwing Sam his gun and handing another to Cas, who looked at it blankly but didn't say anything against it. "You two stay close, you hear? You see anything suspicious, you shoot. Hesitate and you're done." Reaching for the trunk again, Dean pulled out a handgun and passed it over to Canada. "Same rules apply to you."

America took the shotgun from Canada's hands and weighed it on his palms. It was a surprisingly comfortable fit as he tucked it against his shoulder and aimed into the thick brush of trees like a professional. Sam figured he probably was, having seen so many wars. Guy could probably outfight them for all he knew. It made the two of them breathe easier at least.

On the other hand, Canada was frowning at his given weapon. Frankly, it sucked, but he kept the opinion to himself.

"You two ready?" Sam asked the brothers while Dean made his way into the forest, Cas close behind. "You can always just hang back and watch the road in case—"

"We're going." America's voice was stern, if not a little panicky, but Sam didn't push. Canada shot America a glare, annoyed at the fact that he'd speak for him even in such a dangerous situation.

Without exchanging another word, they made their way into the trees.

* * *

><p>Saying the forest was dense was an understatement. Blame it on the clouds above the surface of the trees or the thick clumps themselves, there was barely any light. Small rivulets of pale gray did shine through every here and there but it was nowhere near Dean's comfort zone. It was too dark for untrained eyes to react quickly if need be, even if they did have Cas with them. Dry leaves crunched beneath their boots, branches snapping every here and there, breaths a little too loud for their liking… It was a nightmare.<p>

The Winchesters refused to let their weapons ease, grasped at the ready and aiming at each tiny little sound that bubbled through the thick atmosphere around there. Canada, on the other hand, seemed at ease. Too used to forests and hunting on his land; even if it was his brother's country, the rules were the same. Meanwhile, America was jumpy, even with decades of expert training tucked beneath his belt. This was personal. It hit close to home in a different kind of way than it usually did and it felt like there was nothing he could do about it even while he was doing whatever was in his power.

Minutes seemed to stretch into hours and the ghostly forest never ended, just kept on going in redundant circles like an old grainy film. Silence became deafening at some point, where no birds or bugs or the storm above reached their ears. Just the buzz and hum of too much silence.

Up front, Castiel took even measured steps, trying to read something neither of them could see but could clearly feel. Like the feeling of someone watching you in the dark, or goosebumps running down one's spine. America wanted out. This wasn't his kind of thing, yet he didn't want to stop. He wanted to get to the bottom of this and then leave it all behind. He just wanted England to be okay.

They came to a stop when the angel raised a hand to his lips, silently telling them to keep quiet and stay close behind. Dean disobeyed, trudging right beside the angel to see what he saw. Seeing himself obligated to keep an eye on the rookies, Sam stood behind, ready for anything that came their way.

America and Canada exchanged brief glances but otherwise inquired nothing. Dean returned, speaking barely above a whisper. "I've got good news and bad news." The three leaned closer to listen. "Arthur's here _but_—" The Winchester spoke sharply before America could react. "There's no fluctuation of magic, or so Cas says."

"Meaning?" Sam asked, brow furrowed as he glanced around again.

"It feels like the rest of this place. It's not… more concentrated, or whatever. Like he isn't a part of whatever it is."

"Then why'd they bring him here?" America asked, loudly, earning himself a bitchface from Sam. "Sorry."

"Don't know. Could be a trap, so keep an eye out."

The brothers nodded and followed his lead.

There was a small clearing up ahead, the grass withered and orange where the unnatural sun shone on. Trees lined the perfect circle, runes carved into the flaky bark in what seemed like blood. America noticed a handful of small yellow flowers that looked horribly out of place, so much that he felt compelled to touch them, just to make sure they really were there and weren't just some sort of hallucination. Turns out they weren't, and he didn't spontaneously combust like he had expected to.

That's when he deemed himself coherent enough to really look at the center of the clearing, which he willingly chose to ignore the first time around. Sam and Dean were already closing in on it, weapons at the ready, while Castiel looked around for anything particularly out of place. Like the whole place wasn't a freakshow.

America had never seen a stone so white and smooth. He had dabbled in paleontology before, been around a great deal of rocks in his lifetime, but this was something entirely new to him. It sloped like a seat, both ends in different directions, the base neatly impaled into the dry earth. Blood red roses sprouted from the corners, bright and new and untouched.

Dean's first thought had been an altar. The weeds alone screamed magic even if there was no significant 'fluctuation' as Cas had stated. He eyed the etched runes, trying to make some sense of them, at least think of where he'd seen them before but nothing came to mind.

"There's no signal." Sam muttered behind him, sensing what his brother was thinking. "I won't be able to send a photo to Bobby's email."

"Figures."

Castiel sauntered over to America's side; awkwardly placing a hand on his shoulder in what he hoped would seem like a sympathetic gesture. They both stood in silence, taking in the sight before them with grim trepidation. Above the polished stone was a cage.

Inside said cage rested England's sleeping form.

From where they were standing, he didn't seem hurt, just tired. His clothing was different from those Dean had seen him in last; all white and well put. The golden hair was a tussled mess over thick eyebrows, dark lashes stark against pale cheeks. Pale… he seemed pale. This worried America as he stepped closer to the cage, Cas' hand falling away. Dean, however, stopped him.

"Easy there, cowboy. This has a dirty trap written all over it." Taking a tight hold of his arm, Dean pulled America back into the trees with the rest of them.

* * *

><p>Sam, Dean and Cas stood huddled beside an oak tree, discussing something America couldn't quite hear from his place on a stump. He sat cross-legged, fingering his shotgun as he pondered. They were taking too long; they had to get England out of that thing as soon as possible. He was a nation, not some animal to be caged. It wasn't that he doubted the Winchesters' skill, he was just inpatient.<p>

Snapping branches made him turn around, seeing Canada approach him with a frown. There was a cut on his cheek and a leaf in his hair, but what else was new. "Where've you been?"

"Looking to see what's up. Those runes—"

"I know." America snapped before stopping himself. He knew those symbols, knew them for a very long time. They weren't of his people, but it was still close to home. Once upon a time, when he had been a child, he had seen them sketched in one of England's old leather books. Not only was it dark magic, it was England's magic. England himself had etched those, but for what reason, he couldn't tell.

Nudging his brother over, Canada tried to sit on the stump as well, but the jerk didn't move. Instead he opted to stand in front him, awkwardly. "England is a part of this, eh? Is it a Halloween thing?"

"Could be. But he would have told me if he was going out. And I don't think he'd willingly lock himself in a cage, you know?"

"This is weird even for him. Why won't you tell them, though? That it's his magic?"

America turned the thought over in his head, running through a million possible scenarios and seeing the gruesome consequences of each and every single one. The Winchesters were hunters. They fought against evil, tore down dark bastards and set things back in their rightful place. Being human countries already put them on the suspicious end of the deal; he didn't want to add black magic into the mix. Unlike Sam, he knew Dean wouldn't be as understanding about the situation. In the end, America decided to play it safe. He felt bad for lying to him, but it's not like he's never done so before. "Because."

"Real eloquent response, eh?"

"Yeah…" The silence was dense as America turned his gaze sullenly at his boyfriend's sleeping form. "I wonder if a kiss will wake him up. You know, like Disney movies? Evil witch puts the princess under a spell…"

"I don't need to hear this." Canada retorted immediately, getting to his feet and hurriedly making his way towards the other three. America gaped at him in utter disbelief.

"Some brother you are, jerk!"

Canada waved him off.

After a moment of brooding and casting worried glances at the seemingly peaceful clearing, America decided to join them. "What's the plan?"

"None." Dean said simply, turning on his heels and heading back towards ground zero. "We open the gate, pull Arthur out and make a run for it. Something comes at us, we shoot it. End of story."

"Sounds like a foolproof plan." Something in America's chest twitched; he knew England would have been proud of his little remark, but he squashed the thought before it got the better of him. He was too awesome to be thinking sappy things in a moment like this. "If anything, we got Cas here to pull some divine intervention, huh?"

"Cas isn't going to pull anything; we're doing this the old fashion way." Dean bit back defensively, taking a step forward only to be held in place by an alert Sam. "This is your problem, not ours. We gank shit, missing persons are out of the business description. I'm not risking Cas because—

"Dean." The tersely spoken word made the Winchester stop, turning agitated eyes towards the stoic angel who looked back at him with something unreadable in his. "I'm not useless. I can still fight without my 'mojo' okay?" He made air quotes to accompany his explanation, clearly exasperated with the hunter's overreaction.

"I never said you couldn't."

"Dean—"

Throwing his hands into the air, Dean made a sarcastic shrug. "You know what? Fine. Do what you want. Let's just get this over with."

Canada scratched the back of his head, watching awkwardly as an agitated Dean made his way towards the clearing, Sam muttering something into his ear. Castiel, on the other hand, stood behind and glanced in that soulful way he always did in America's direction. "I'll see to Arthur's safety. You have my word."

That was a lie.

America read it so clearly it nearly hurt. Angels weren't supposed to lie, and yet there Castiel was, making a promise he knew he couldn't keep. There was something in his expression that ran deeper than what America already knew, shedding light on the idea that those three were very real, very _human_ people. Hunting paranormal stuff might seem like an unreal enough job, but there was obviously more to them than they were letting on. Blue met blue in a brief exchange before Cas turned on his heels and followed the brothers.

Upfront, Sam was having a heated debate with his stubborn brother.

"Missing persons are out of the business description? Whatever happened to saving people being part of the family business, Dean?"

"Sam, this is different. Things are different now—"

"Because of Cas?"

"This isn't about, Cas! This is about whatever the hell they are and what they have to do with it. They aren't human, Sam. First, one of them goes missing and now the American Dream is suggesting we beam them out of here in case something goes down? Isn't that the least bit suspicious to you?" Dean pointedly shoved a finger in Sam's chest to emphasize his argument. "If it isn't human, then it isn't one of us."

"Cas isn't human."

"He's different, we've talked about this."

"Wow. Double standards, much? Look, Dean, I get it. I get that you're on edge. I get that you're miffed about Cas losing his powers as we go, but you gotta tone it down. Cas can defend himself, he knows his way around a gun if he needed to use one. Alfred, in turn, doesn't know anything about us. He doesn't know that Cas fell, hell, I'm sure he doesn't even know out last name. If you ask me, I'm sure he doesn't believe half the shit we've told him since yesterday. Once we save Arthur, then that's it. We go on our merry way and they go theirs."

Dean huffed, his mind set on the white stone in his line of sight. He didn't want to talk about it; he just wanted it over with. Cocking his gun, he ignored his brother and gestured the others to hurry it up.

Nothing had changed in their fifteen minutes absence, not even England had shifted from his spot inside the neat looking cage. The silence still lingered, the odd feeling still swirled around their guts as they kept a sharp eye out and about but nothing was either new or out of place. America kept close to Dean when he raised his handgun, after having deemed it safe enough to shoot, and blew the lock off the thick silver chain. Tension went up a few notches when not even then did England stir or give any sign of life.

"What the hell?" Canada muttered by America's side, giving him a sidelong glance. "Is he… alive?"

"Of course he is." Announced America a little too quickly, a little too loudly. He took measured steps towards the cage, Sam close behind him, and swallowed hard.

England looked at peace, but most important of all, he was breathing. Releasing a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, America hesitantly reached for him, closing his hand around the deceptively frail shoulder. No reaction. He squeezed a little harder, shaking him awake, a knot slowly forming in his throat before the nation moved. A slight jerking gesture surprised him before big greens peeled through, shinning and groggy but very much alive.

"Shit, England, you're alive." America didn't give a damn about the shaky voice, he was just glad to see those annoying huge eyebrows knotting to form a coherent thought but failing. "Hey, don't strain yourself now."

"… America? Where—What just happened?" England croaked harshly before going into a coughing fit, spitting blood into the sleeve of his white suit jacket. "Where's…?"

"Don't talk, England, come on. We have to get you out of here before whatever did this comes for us." Surprisingly enough, England went willingly without a word of protest.

"Canada?" He stumbled sideways into said country that caught him easily, the small body a cinch to maneuver in its drugged state. "About bloody time you got here!"

"Nice to see you too, England." Canada deadpanned in his brother's direction that only just deemed it good enough a time to help share England's weight.

"Hang in there, Art. We're going to get you out of here." The Briton huffed at the pet name, but said nothing against it; instead he sagged further down in his dreamlike stupor. "The hell's wrong with you, man? What'd they do? Who did this to you?"

Only then did Sam and Dean come into view, giving England some pretty intense and questioning stares. His eyes widened a bit before he smiled crookedly, snorting at the tense build of both their bodies, ready to jump at anything that decided to sneak up.

"It's your fault I'm ankle deep in this rubbish." England tried getting back some balance on his feet without help, but he kept swaying dangerously to either side. "I suppose you aren't familiar with a certain someone named Crowley, are you?"

Castiel immediately materialized by Dean's side, giving them a steady look that spoke volumes. The Winchesters suddenly looked tired, more tired than the usual; annoyance settling in the brim. "This is fucking fantastic." Dean burst out, loudly, as he turned back towards the forest.

* * *

><p>It was another crowded day in the roadside bar, the clock beside the deer head striking twenty past five in the evening. Almost twenty-four hours since the chaos had broken loose, and there was still just as many questions unanswered. England had recovered from his cloud-nine state and was currently scuffing French fries—<em>chips<em>— like there was no tomorrow. Apparently that entire magical atmosphere had drained him. The sun too had finally reappeared over the breaking clouds, telling them that whatever had caused all the trouble was already long gone. This didn't make the Winchesters at all happy.

Ellen and Jo joined them, burgers and fries and beer all around and on the house. It wasn't every day everybody made it out alive, independently if they saw action or not. Ellen was glad to see them all alive and well, even if some of them had several blank spots that needed accounting for. "This is perhaps the most anticlimactic hunt ever, if you ask me."

Sam snorted loudly, grimacing at the words. "You're telling me. That bastard is up to something." Castiel sat sullenly between him and Dean, his eyes boring holes into the polished table beneath his hands. "Lighten up, Cas. So you did a mistake. It's not like anyone got killed."

"Someone could have. I should have sensed him."

"But no one did; get over it, Cas. You did good." Dean made sure to emphasize his words with a reassuring squeeze to the knee, fingers skidding just slightly upwards before Sam's glare stopped him. "Prude."

America came in through the door then, pocketing his phone and giving them a thumbs up as he took a seat by England's side, grinning down at him. "Bumped our reservation to the third, so we might make it yet." He nudged the Briton playfully, earning a wolf whistle from Dean and a dramatic eye roll from Sam. Even Cas looked comfortable, sipping his cold beer, his side conveniently leaning against Dean. "You're still up for it, right?"

Putting down a half eaten fry, England turned his best glare on the American. "Do I look like I need a vacation to you?"

"Yes." All six people present answered in unison before breaking off into muffled laughter. England did his best to suppress a snort, but he did break into a half smile. He was in a surprisingly good mood, then why the hell not enjoy it. Turning his gaze idly out the window, he noticed Canada leaning against his car, typing away at his phone before looking up to meet England's eyes. The looks held, serious and ominous, before Canada broke out in an uncharacteristic grin.

England wasn't surprised when Canada's form slowly morphed into someone else entirely; instead he mentally rolled his eyes at the mock salute the new figure sent off. The pale hair, nearly blonde, shone in the bright sun as it was messily combed back, the pale hazel eyes alight with mischief beyond any kind of rational understanding. Oh, a lot had happened in those few dark hours in the forest, but neither America nor the Winchesters had to know exactly what happened…

* * *

><p>Having locked the door behind him, England came face to face with a man in black. A man he had known, personally, centuries ago. The realization made him freeze, uncertain and confused as to why he was even there before him; he had figured this was all a part of the mess, but it didn't make any sense no matter how hard he thought about it. He had been one of his brother's citizens… just a random old bloke who had lost his son. Nothing special; nothing particularly sinister.<p>

The Scottish accent was thick, slurred and hushed; seductive even, but England immediately dismissed the fleeting thought.

Brown eyes immediately flashed red. A knot formed in England's throat out of sheer horror. _'__King __of __the __Crossroads__'_, the demon explained in a business like tone, all casual charm and professional skill. He wanted to make a deal, an offer he could not refuse, but when England laughed in his face, told him he wasn't the slightest bit interested, it got ugly.

Emotionally volatile couldn't begin to describe Crowley's personality. _He __could __argue __all __he __wanted, __England __was __sure __that __wasn__'__t __his __real __name __back __when __he __was __alive __and __kicking._ Not even Russia's bipolarity could compare to this thing in a bad mood, going from gruffly soft spoken to downright violent hollering in less than two seconds. Five minutes into the mostly one-sided conversation however, England was unfazed. At least he wasn't some black monster with horns and a tail carrying around a pitchfork; he was a handsome bloke, far in his years, but still a looker. It made it easy to talk.

Cutting quickly to the chase, Crowley stated that England was something else entirely. Whatever lied behind those words were open to interpretation because the meaning of it honestly went lost on him. When asked, they were somehow transported to an entirely different location. That was when panic truly began to settle in. Dressed in white, standing at the middle of a clearing which held an uncanny resemblance to his homeland… England stood up to the abomination, daring him to try something, anything.

"This has nothing to do with your pretty boy boyfriend, relax. It's all about you, Arthur Kirkland. The great sorcerer. You've got quite a history, no pun intended. I wanted to discuss this over a basket of… freshly baked scones." He fell silent for a moment, pacing back and forth thoughtfully, a hand inside the pocket of his neatly pressed suit. "But if you insist on acting like a _**blithering **__**howler **__**monkey**_! —then we'll do this the hard way." Crowley snapped his fingers and instantly, a howl pierced through the unnatural silence.

England froze in mid-breath. He knew that sound. He had heard it before, many a times throughout his life but mostly during his childhood. The legend, the lore… all of it was exposed right there, and he was on the wrong side of the bargain. He should have known demons would play dirty. "Do you get your kicks by bringing bedtime stories to life? You could at least be slightly more original."

"Oh, no, no. It's actually the other way around. You see, the British are rather allergic to naming things properly, but you already know that. This big boy right here? What is it you call it… the beast of Dartmoor?" The demon patted the head of something invisible, but even unseen, England could feel the raw evil emanating from it. "Hell hound."

"So now you're going to bribe me into giving it to you?" England tried to steel his voice, so far he was managing, but that thing could taste the fear in its very tongue.

"I'm past the point of bribing, sweetheart. I gave you a splendid offer, hell, think of it this way. You aren't human; the whole soul thing is pretty questionable so your payment might have to wait more than ten years. I'll tell you what, one hundred years of bliss in your little country before my doggies come for you, what do you say? All you have to do is give me that tome."

"No." Said England, simple and clean. "You can't have it. You want your apocalypse, look to someone else for help."

"Alright." Crowley stepped forward, invading England's personal space and wetting his lips inches away from the nation's face. "Final offer. You give me the book _now_, or I set Cujo on you. Great Britain goes down in flames, accidental market crash, a handful of natural disasters and a mass murder in Parliament. Or I could get creative. How does a zombie breakout sound? Splendid on the news, I bet. Before you know it, your little island paradise will be dissolved and my Hounds will be dragging you into the deepest, hottest circle of hell in a week's time."

"You know, Crowley, you remind me a lot of myself back when I was an Empire. But there's a small quote an old enemy once taught me. 'The devil is wiser for being old than for being the devil.'" A sly grin made its way across England's features, arms crossing before his chest. "And I am _a__lot_ older than you, dear friend." He remembered Spain muttering something along those lines in his native language back in the day; he never would have expected an opportunity to use it. "I would bring up the fact that I have the Winchesters guarding my back, but I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of defending myself."

"I know you are." With a flick of his wrist, a steel cage materialized atop of the altar stone. "That is why I have a plan B. Let's see who can win this little brawl." A snap of fingers and the thundering footfalls of dogs broke out around him. "Get him, boys!"

England thought fast, but not fast enough. He didn't have his wand on him, or his book, so he did the only thing he could do. England ran. Running deeper into the fantastical forest, Hell Hounds on his heels, he frantically searched his brain. There had to be a spell for at least warding off those dastardly things that would rip him to shreds without the slightest hesitation. However, his years of experience in the battle field paled in comparison to this nightmare. England tripped, over what he wasn't sure, but the pain on his back came quicker than the impact to his chest.

Tearing cloth reached him before the sickening crunch of snapping jaws, then pain. White hot pain that seared through every sense in him, colored blotches dancing in front of his eyes as his own howls began to rivals the hounds themselves. But he could fight it. He had suffered worse, felt Death itself shift through his nerves and fray his very being.

Twisting his arm, he felt muscle and tendon break away on his back, blood soaking his clothes as the Hounds continued to feast. He reached, groped his way blindly to the source of the wet smacks of sound but nothing. Yelling into the dry ground, England felt the first threads of darkness slipping into his consciousness. He tried again, this time he shifted his whole body enough to collide with the invisible mass.

"_Recesserimus_!" With a high-pitched yelp and a loud thud, the Hound fell over, unmoving. It wasn't dead, but it would surely be knocked out long enough for him to escape.

Gathering what little strength he had, and fighting the urge not to throw up as he got to his feet, England made a run for it. Or at least tried. Instead he limped quickly back towards where Crowley had been; it wasn't his smartest move to date, but something struck him. There was a spell that could banish him, one he actually remembered in its entirety. It wouldn't last long, without his wand there was no spell he could cast that would be permanent, but it could buy him enough time to reach the Winchesters. He only prayed the bastard wasn't strong enough to repel it.

"Back so soon? That's a pretty gruesome slice, mate." Crowley stated with a smug smile, hands tucked neatly in his pocket as he paced to and fro, eyes taking in the tall trees. "Makes me wonder if that somehow affected your little island. If only my phone had that stupid app…"

England limped across the clearing, hands drawing on the chipped bark with his own blood. His head swam continuously as bile built up in his throat; he was afraid he wouldn't be able to remain conscious for much longer. He wasn't about to die there, not in at the hands of some lowlife demon. Brief images of America danced in his head, those glowing blue eyes and that radiant smile. He probably didn't even know he was gone, come morning, he would probably freak out when he noticed his absence. England couldn't bear seeing America's heart break, not at his extent.

He pushed forward.

"_Deora __ar __mo __chroi_…" Blood followed a ragged cough, staining his white suit a horrifying dark red. The wound must have been deeper than he thought. "_B-Ba __dheas __an __la __go __oiche_."

"What's that? Arthur, Arthur are you trying to send me back to hell?" Crowley dramatically placed a hand over his chest, gasping for good measure before the smug smile slipped back into place. "I'm wounded."

"Think of it as a restraining order." Arthur wheezed, still stumbling from tree to tree, etching ancient runes. "I'm sure… you've gotten yourself a handful—o-of those."

"I see you've developed a sense of humor since the last time we've met. About time."

"Get bent."

"Raunchy, I like it." Pulling out an old looking pistol, Crowley leaned against the cage, twirling the gun in his palms and occasionally pointing it in England's direction. "There are a handful of things the Colt can't kill; I'm starting to wonder if countries are one of those."

"Why not shoot and see?" Finishing a circle on the last tree, England slumped down to the ground, panting raggedly through clogs of blood bursting through his mouth.

"As much as I'd like to, I can't. I need you alive. I need that book."

"Well, tough shit, fucker. You are not getting me alive." With a smirk, England pulled up his last bit of energy, running on pure adrenaline alone and finished his spell. "_Na __glortha __binne __i __mo __thaobh. __'S __aoibhneas __i __gach __ait __gan __gruaim __Athas __ar __mo __chroi __go __deo! __Ma __shiulaim __o __na __laetha __beo __An __ghrian__'s __an __ghealach __ar __mo __chul_."

"That is so eighteenth century."

"Whatever works."

Crowley went to retort but before he could step forward, the ground beneath his feet began to rumble. "Bullocks!" Hesitating momentarily, he thought about just putting a bullet through the idiotic country's skull. "I will come back for you, you good for nothing mud monkey."

"Not on my watch, dude." Both of them were startled when someone else spoke from the tree line. Falling tree branches and the sound of cracking boulders grew louder around them, but the stranger seemed unfazed. "I've got orders from the big daddy angels; no one's touching this limey under my watch."

Crowley grimaced, looking scandalized by the latest turn of events. It was then that England noticed he couldn't move. He was bound by invisible chains and it was only just moments away when the ground decided to open up and swallow the demon whole. The spell had worked. "This isn't your business, Gabriel. I've gotten enough rubbish from the Winchesters' guardian."

"Cassie? Naw! He's just an average fellow. Come near his hunter and he _will_ smite you to hell and back, but me? Oh-ho, I'm an entire new level of smitey action. And I'm back in the Heavenly Ranks, baby." The angel's hair nearly shined gold against the energy swirling to life in the clearing, combed back messily and twirling a bit at the end. It was also hard to ignore the lollipop perched on his lips. "I would send you packing but it seems like our little sorcerer here took care of it himself. Nice going, Artie."

England had to blink at the nickname, fearing that America might have been there after all. But it was only just the angel speaking; he was grateful.

"Can't blame a girl for trying. Care to finish me off? I find your voice most grating." Crowley bitched at England who was just staring, glossy eyed.

"_Recesserimus_." His voice was low, harsh and raspy, fading out with each second, but it had been done.

Light filled the clearing, burning out the grass beneath them as the ground absorbed the dark energy that materialized Crowley's form. High pitched keening made England's ears bleed, nearly driving him mad. The temperature around him skyrocketed before dimming down to a bearable level along with the light and sound. Just like that, it was over. Energy and magic still hummed around him, palpable against his torn flesh, but it was over. He ended the chain, broke the curse, maybe not permanently, but he had what he needed.

Darkness engulfed him momentarily before a hand fell on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He looked up to see pale hazel eyes and a cocky smirk, _Gabriel_, his mind offered, before warmth overtook him again. The Archangel Gabriel. He had an archangel watching over him… and he had no idea how he felt about that. Instead, he opted to sleep.

* * *

><p>"So, that's it. We're alive, it's over and we can move on now." Dean interrupted England's flashback as he stood up, turning up the collar of his leather jacket. "You win some, you lose some. Next time, we're taking down that son of a bitch." Sam followed his brother's lead and got to his feet, taking his beer with him.<p>

It was time to hit the road again; they did have an apocalypse to stop, after all.

"Drive safe." America offered as he shook Dean's hand. "Wouldn't want to mess up that baby."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Ellen and Jo gave America equally crushing hugs and pats on the back, wishing him the best of luck on whatever it was he did as a country. They gave England French fries and six cans of soda for the road. Two of which were in case he needed something to throw in America's direction, they explained.

Outside the sun was scorching, bouncing off car hoods and making sweat settle beneath their collars. Dean immediately took his jacket off and threw it in his trunk then proceeded to sling his arm across Cas' shoulder with a smile. The angel returned the smile, leaving them all momentarily breathless. Castiel never really smiled the way he just did, and damn it all he was beautiful. America's hand gripped England's tightly, a hint of possessiveness in the gesture.

"If you guys run into any trouble, you have our number. Don't hesitate to give us a call." Sam said while patting England's back. "Hopefully next time it won't be a dud."

"Hopefully there won't be a next time." America was quick to say, pulling his boyfriend closer and shuddering at the nightmare of it all. "Once was enough, thanks very much."

"I agree with them." Muttered Dean as he shifted his eyes with a shrug. "You stay away from all of this shit, you hear? But if you do run into trouble, you know what to do."

Both countries nodded gratefully as they stood there beneath the sun, watching the three get in their car and ease out into the freeway, honking the horn once as Sam waved at them through the window. America sighed longingly, promising himself that he was going to get his hands on a '67 Impala if it was the last thing he ever did. Motor humming against the heat, wheels smoothly purring as they rolled on dirty asphalt, the silver details contrasting beautifully against the sleek black… the car was a damn dream.

England would totally swoon over him if he took him out on dates in it.

By his side, England slumped a bit, still tired from his long night. Gabriel had zapped him back to full health once Crowley had been sucked down to his nice little hole; but the reason why he had locked him inside the cage still escaped him. He had appreciated the effort in keeping him safe, if that was even the reason, but it ended up giving him a nasty crick in the neck.

A truck's horn startled the couple out of their reverie and chuckled in unison, clinging to the other with smiles on their faces. The Halloween Horror Adventure had been completely uncalled for, but it was… once they thought about it… rather fun. Not that they'd do it again, but it was one of those instances that would go down in their own personal history.

"Come on, you git. I don't plan on missing our reservation." England stole a brief kiss from the American's coffee flavored lips. "We might make it before Wednesday if we leave in the next hour or so."

With a grin, America jumped to it. "Awesome! I'll go check if Canada loaded our stuff into the car—" The excited chatter died instantly.

"America?"

"Where's Canada?"

"He was right here a second a—" England stopped at mid sentence, realization hitting him harder than road kill. "I don't think—"

America's phone rang abruptly, interrupting them. "Hello? Mattie, where the hell are you?" There was a moment's silence before America's face whitened almost comically. "What do you mean _Vancouver_?" A string of 'uh-huhs' and 'ohs' later, he hung up his phone, his mouth shaping to form words but nothing came out.

"What is it? America?"

"Matthew." England's eyebrows rose, urging him to continue. "He never left Canada."

It would take a while, maybe even weeks before America could understand the exact reasons why England burst out laughing at that, but at that moment, he was too busy fuming and cursing at nothing. He was sure someone was out to get him; he was even convinced that Canada was just lying to pull his leg, because he was a mean jerk that way. An hour later, they were on the road to the next town over, Jo having been kind enough to drive them there herself so they could at least rent a car and be on their way.

During the ride, England enlightened America on the entire Gabriel situation; gave him a brief explanation as to what really happened in the forest but conveniently left out the magic and the near death experience. There were some things America was better off not knowing.

In the end, America just nodded quietly, looking out the window of the beat down Ford pickup. He was happy to see that the mysterious woods were no longer there and he felt like himself again; no left over annoyances or wrong lingering feelings. It was just him and England again, nothing between them but long dry roads and breathtaking landscapes. The Winchesters were now a closed book, something meant to fade into their past like many other experiences with their citizens. But something still nudged at the back of America's mind.

"Hey, England?"

England looked up from his phone, fixing America a questioning glance. "What is it?"

He thought for a moment, looking down at the sleek phone pinched between England's long pale fingers. Never has he hated himself more for wondering, "Do you think the Winchesters know the truth about Big Foot?"

"America?"

"Yeah?"

"Bugger off." England shut his phone and slid it back into his pant pocket. "I'll call once we get back from Washington."

.

.

.

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End


End file.
